


Within Your Scars

by crescenttwins



Series: Yakuza!AU [2]
Category: Code Geass
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Drugs, Gen, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Character Death, NaNoWriMo, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Politics, Self-Mutilation, Sequel, Swordplay, Swords, Yakuza
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:32:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4854836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescenttwins/pseuds/crescenttwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve heard a rumor,” Lloyd says, “that the Kururugi clan has a champion.” His grin stretches wider.  “A young man with a clever mind and a lawyer’s badge.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [touchreceptors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchreceptors/gifts).



> So a few years ago I finished "Silk and Steel" and decided that was it-- I had told Suzaku's coming-of-age story, and he and Lelouch were never going to be together. Yup. 
> 
> Then in September I was wondering how Lelouch /might/ get back into Suzaku's life, and around that same time #suzalulu week 2015 was being generated by the lovely Charis. And along came the Day 3 prompt, "The Sword", and this resisted being a short timestamp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chunk brought to you by Charis's sleuthing skill, which identified this as a "Silk and Steel" sequel when I was still being coy about writing it. :)

His skin feels stretched over sharp edges of bone, pools of exhaustion filling the hollows between muscle and bone.  

Suzaku hates this room, tainted as it is with the memory of war council and his father’s heavy hand. Altering the room would be simplest-- relegate it to a storage closet, he thinks humorlessly-- but tradition stands for the yakuza of the old world.  To them, he is still young (still _foolish,_ riding on the high of his latest victory--) but Suzaku is not a child. He is an _oyabun_ who has proved his worth in blood and steel.

When he sits, Suzaku tucks his sword beside him. Its familiar weight grounds him, pushes away the ill-defined anger. An exhale before raising his eyes to meet the amused grin of Lloyd Asplund.

The older man is a strange one, he thinks fondly. Already his eyes have dropped to where Suzaku’s sword is hidden beneath the table, bored with courtesy. It is appropriate for the war room, Suzaku thinks, and lets his fingers slide around his sword’s hilt comfortably.

The door slides open after a moment more of silence. Toudou enters, bowing slightly as the door closes behind him, and seats himself with a murmured apology. Lloyd’s eyes flicker up to Suzaku’s once again even before the door is completely shut.

“I’ve heard a rumor,” Lloyd begins as Toudou settles, “that the Kururugi clan has a champion.” His grin stretches wider.  “A young man with a clever mind and a lawyer’s badge.”

“A target,” Suzaku summarizes even as the ache behind his eyes grows.

“Mm, and a very attractive one, I would say,” Lloyd chirrups.  He dips a cracker in his tea cup, and Suzaku feels Toudou shift at the lack of decorum. “Quite courteous, too, if the girls in the office are to be believed. If only he didn’t constantly seek out the yakuza files-- well, the Kururugi clan files, anyway.”

Toudou moves again, and Suzaku looks at him quickly.  A furrow is forming between Toudou’s brows, and the tentative balance that the other two men have maintained is losing against Lloyd’s carefully crafted deviance and Toudou’s honored tradition.

 _Politics exist for a reason,_ Asahina had told him the first time he had seen Toudou and his father argue. _No two people will agree on everything, even if they share values. Sustained order is the wish of fools and leaders alike._ Yet Suzaku remembers the silence that passed between the older men all those years ago when Lloyd had pressed a newly reformed sword into Toudou’s hands, and he places his faith in the memory.  

His chest still aches in remembrance of the disastrous events that took his mentor and his  _oyabun_ ( _that took his chance with a could-be-friend, a may-be-lover_ ).  But it has been six years since then, and the Kururugi clan had adopted their new _oyabun_ without contest in the aftermath.

Power exists in rumor. Fear is quick to slide into people’s minds, twist whispers into screaming.  The groundwork had been present after the Kururugi-Kozuki clan war, and the blades of the Kururugi clan sang harmonies to the nightmarish pitch.  

In years following the war, the other yakuza clans send men to test the truth of the rumor. When the Kururugi clan emerges victorious in skirmish after skirmish, they quickly learn that Suzaku has neither time nor patience for leaders who put their men at risk for curiosity. The Kururugi territory expands, and Suzaku’s brothers carve out flesh and land from invading clans to remind them who they have crossed.  

Suzaku Kururugi is hailed both a genius swordsman and a charismatic demon. Yakuza whisper of him like a bogeyman, the young _oyabun_ who has an army of devoted brothers and wields the loyalty of two of the most renowned swordsmen of their time.  

In the time that follows, every attack is subterfuge; pretense and fraud playing under the tongues of sycophants. Junior members of the Kururugi clan find themselves framed for petty crimes; they are thrown into holding cells and names and records are blackened.  It will escalate from here, Suzaku thinks wearily-- right now, the Kururugi clan has enough men that it is not hampered by the arrests, but the balance will tip soon.  The clan funds are suffering, morale is slipping, and--

A rumor starts to permeate the Kururugi compound, a support in their unsteady footing. A civilian lawyer is working to release the Kururugi clan members. Men are returning to the compound, grateful, and Suzaku can’t accept their thanks because the lawyer isn’t sanctioned.  The lawyer is some misguided civilian who will get caught in the crossfire as soon as their enemies have a name. And while Suzaku is grateful for the assistance, this is a clan problem and he will not have an innocent’s blood on his hands.

“The man,” Toudou’s voice rumbles, bringing Suzaku back to the present.

“Yes, yes.” Lloyd says. He removes his glasses, examining them before they slide back on. “He’s quite interesting. A new graduate of the esteemed--”

“His _name,”_ Toudou interrupts.

“Oh, that’s the _easy_ part.” Lloyd kicks his legs out across the tatami, sprawling, “You could find that out just by looking at police records.  What’s _really_ interesting is that he recently passed the bar exam. New lawyer, and the only cases he’s taken since then are… exactly right, you guessed it! The only cases he’s worked are pro bono for the Kururugi clan members. One must _wonder_ what he thinks he owes to us.”

Suzaku narrowed his eyes. “What is he after?” Protection and reputation? It is harder to enter a clan as a civilian than as a warrior, but there are smoother ways then this covert assistance. There are ways that are less likely to end up staining good steel, he thinks sardonically.

“No one knows for sure,” Lloyd shrugs. “The girls in the office say that he has a standing alert for anyone who comes tagged in the database as Kururugi, or has _distinctive_ tattoos. He’s friendly so they like him, but secretive enough that they keep some distance.”  There’s something in Lloyd’s tone, an undercurrent of interest or humor.  Suzaku wants to parse through it, but the information comes first. “Some are thinking he’s a dirty lawyer.”

Of those in the room, Toudou is the one most ingrained in clan politics. It’s instinct for Suzaku to shift his gaze to the older man, to take in his stern consideration. “He’s passed over other clans.” Toudou says, a frown settling on his lips.

“Indeed he has.”

Suzaku rubs his eyes. “His success so far?” An inept lawyer is a less attractive target, someone Suzaku can warn off with a few men and a monetary sum.  A good lawyer is someone they can recruit: their legal division has been lacking as of late, the late leader someone no one _dare_ replace--

Suzaku brushes away the sharp loss that buries itself in his chest.

Lloyd grins, teeth shining like a carnivore’s in the bright light of the meeting room. “So far? A neat one-hundred percent. All the members of the Kururugi clan that were wrongly incarcerated since he began have been set free without a stain on their record. He’s been quite, shall we say, _productive_.” He pushes up the edge of his glasses, taking in their response.

Suzaku straightens his back, weariness overcome by concern. He exchanges a glance with Toudou, uneasy, and the look on the older man’s face confirms it.  They have a champion indeed, and one foolish enough to not realize that not every battle needs to be fought.

“His name,” Suzaku orders, finally.  

The grin on Lloyd’s face turns manic.

The uneasy feeling bursts in his chest, rams its head into a memory that Suzaku keeps tucked away for days when he struggles to be worthy of the title _oyabun._ He lets the weight of his sword beside him ground him as he inhales slowly.  Lloyd provides him the courtesy of an exhale before he continues, but already Suzaku can feel the tension pulling at his spine, instinct trying to draw him away from this room. He forces himself to listen.

“Why, you know him already,” Lloyd says, leaning forward to peer into Suzaku’s eyes, “unless you and your esteemed guards are hiding your tryst for some reason.”

 _Confirmation_ \-- something in Suzaku screams. _There must be confirmation, nothing can be left to chance, everything must be absolute truth._ It pulls his back tight, and for a moment he feels the shadow of his mother’s hands as she tucks her hand into the small of his back, reminding him to sit straight. He blinks and the sensation vanishes, but it is enough.

Suzaku swallows around the stone in his throat, doesn’t let his eyes slip to Toudou for assurance.  He meets Lloyd’s eyes dead on, and repeats, “His name.”

Lloyd moves back, the grin slipping from his face. Behind the silver frames of his glasses, his eyes narrow and skim over the solemn features of the _oyabun’s_ face, his tight grip around his blade.  Lloyd’s stare skips to Toudou briefly, then returns to Suzaku’s face.  

“Well,” Lloyd says quietly, the teasing tone vanished from his voice, “you do always manage to surprise me, Kururugi oyabun. The lawyer’s name is Lamperouge.”

A beat of his heart, pressing against the cage of his ribs, while the birds on his back cry out.

“Lelouch Lamperouge.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suzaku has decisions to make regarding a certain lawyer, and soon.

The sky tints his blade red as Suzaku’s sword clashes with Toudou’s. The sound is sharp in the evening air, and his arm trembles before he pushes back, disengaging their blades.  Toudou backs up, taking a wide stance, and Suzaku can pretend the rush in his blood is due to exertion and bloodlust.

For this moment, he can shutter away the chaos that is leaving footprints in his lungs, forget the color the moonlight tinted pale, unscarred skin-- 

His grip on his hilt is weak when Toudou strikes, and Suzaku releases his right hand-- a lost cause-- to catch the sword with his left, parrying the second blow. Between the third and fourth, he switches to a two-handed grip, slashing quickly to push Toudou backwards. His arms ring with tension, already preparing to catch the next heavy strike.  

Suzaku shifts his weight carefully, watching Toudou as the other man sheathes his sword.  He is about to question the older man when a new voice cuts in.

“Allow me to cut in, _Oyabun_ ,” Nagisa says. Her blade is in hand, and at his nod she takes up Toudou’s place without pause.

It has been a long time since Suzaku has sparred with Nagisa, but she is always faster than he remembers. If Toudou is known for his power and Suzaku his ingenuity, Nagisa is defined by the swift lethality of her sword. He barely has enough time to raise his blade before she is upon him.

She twists her sword first, a piercing blow, and Suzaku deflects it and swipes his leg forward, hoping to catch the back of her knee.  When he kicks, Nagisa bends forward, letting her momentum slide her into a downward strike. Suzaku pivots on his standing leg, barely pushing out of the sword’s range.  He lets the spin carry him around, propelling his sword to strike at her side.

Nagisa rolls forward out of strike radius, letting the sword sail above her, and kicks his blade neatly out of his hand.  It slides across the courtyard, catching the red of the setting sun, and Suzaku clenches his fingers around air.  

She stands smoothly, sheathing her sword in the next efficient movement. Her eyes are kind. “You’re quite distracted today.”

Suzaku feels his skin flush with shame, hoping fruitlessly that the lighting will hide his embarrassment.  He goes to retrieve his sword, wiping it down carefully.

“He has good reason,” Toudou comments, from the porch.

“Hm,” Nagisa says, cocking a hip. “Then he is sloppy to let it affect his bladework. Between the ever present ruckus of the other clans and the noise the Chinese are starting to make, we’ll be in trouble if he catches a _stray_ blade in his chest.”

He sheathes his sword. “Is there something you need from me?”

Nagisa considers him, eyes sweeping over him. “You need to rest, _Oyabun_ . Eat dinner, bathe, and sleep. Tomorrow is another day, and one full of meetings with tradition and fools.”  Her voice is hard, but her face is steady and her eyes warm. He acquiesces to her command, half-listening to his advisors as he departs, and manages to catch her next order. “And _you_ , draw your sword. Your footwork is lacking, Toudou, and how that happened I--”

It delights him, that their clan’s bonds are clear now, instead of hidden away behind doors and alliances. _Oyabun_ he might be, but if the people here will exchange sake with him-- if they will join this clan with honor, he will gladly lend his blade to them. Suzaku will defend them, will shelter them and tear into anyone who trespasses against them. Because they are _his_ , and Lelouch is returning them to him, then--

Then there is a debt to be repaid. 

(Suzaku will fall against a wall for a barest moment, eyes burning as he clenches his fists.  He will snarl, frustrated and torn, and the display will be enough that the older members-- the ones from _before_ , the ones who knew Genbu-- will abruptly remember how young their _Oyabun_ is.

But this is the path he chose, and he must walk it.)

 

\-----

 

Blood slips down the side of the man’s face, and it is a portent of the words that trail from his mouth like smoke. Suzaku doesn’t hear the words at first, but a touch of Nagisa’s hand to his own loosens a grip on his hilt.

He watches them, his men, wonders what kind of sight he must be.  The tension ripples out of his stance, and when he looks again, the man repeats his words. 

“We were attacked leaving the station,” the man says.

“Brazen,” Suzaku says, even as heat begins to ratchet off his spine, “that they would be so bold.” 

The man nods at him, acknowledging. “The lawyer took some injury, but--”

Suzaku straightens, slides a glance to Toudou that has him leaving the room. The man breaks off, uneasy, and at Suzaku’s nod he continues.

“It wasn’t-- it wasn’t a serious injury, oyabun. We defended him as best we could, but he took a shallow cut to the arm.” The older man gestures a line across his sleeve. “He does not need stitches, and he refused our assistance after releasing us.”

“They’re targeting outsiders, now?” Suzaku says, voice deceptively light. “How brazen of them, to be brash enough to harm a civilian who is kind enough to take care of the family.”

“...I could not say, oyabun, whether we were the targets or he was.” 

It is enough that he says anything at all; because clan members they may be, they are small fry. There is no need for other clans to hunt them, not when they have committed no wrongs and been easy enough to catch in a mousetrap. The other clans know about Lelouch, Suzaku realizes, feels it reverberate as truth in his chest. They know about Lelouch, and the title _civilian_ is no longer a shield against their men.  

This time, he thinks, tapping his fingers gently across the mats, was a warning. It would be too easy for them to have attacked Lelouch after he had departed from the men-- no, this was _intent_. 

And it has been a long time since Suzaku had to play this game.

“The attackers,” he says finally. 

“--I did not recognize them, oyabun.” The man says, head bowed in shame at the admission.

Hidden, then, as quiet as the glimmer of a blade in the moment before it is sheathed. But they have made their point: Kururugi and civilian blood have been spilled alike, not with the intent to kill but to warn, to frighten. Suzaku wonders if Lelouch will stop, now, because this is the second time he has faced a blade.

The difference now is that Suzaku knows, as it has happened; this time, Lelouch is a known entity.  And abruptly, Suzaku wonders-- how many people know of their dalliance, the one night he dared to bring Lelouch into his bed?

How many people know who Lelouch is, beyond a naive lawyer who has a bias towards the Kururugi clan?  How many of them are willing to drive a blade through his thigh, to watch his body drag itself to death if it will send a message to the Kururugi clan?

The taste of bile is strong on his tongue, and when he swallows he can imagine it sitting heavy, stones in his gut. 

“Well done protecting him and yourself,” Suzaku says, finally. “Take care of any injuries you have, and let us know if you recall anything else about your attackers.” The man nods, dismissed, and he stands only after Suzaku has passed the threshold into the hallway.

It is a strange thing, Suzaku thinks, even as Toudou falls into step behind him, that he can feel so young and old at the same time, stretched between his duty to his men and a moment of the past. A moment passed so long ago that Suzaku wipes it from his mind in all but the darkest of times, the moments where he allows himself to break down and to dream in the midst of his own quarters. 

His father would call him soft, he realizes.  His father would never have allowed him that dalliance, would have condemned him for making such an obvious target and not swallowing Lelouch into the clan. 

The thing that his father will never (had never) understood is this: one of the loveliest things about Lelouch was that he was untainted by blood, by loss and by the yakuza. It was enchanting, to have something his own and not his clan’s and--  
  
And Suzaku closes his eyes, pretends not to hear the selfishness in that statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is still a work in progress, so any comments or suggestions you have are utterly adored! I hope you enjoyed this tiny Christmas present from me to you (and thank you for being patient with me!), and have a safe holiday season!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things speed up, and Suzaku has only ever learned to deal with worry in one way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas part two! :D Many thanks to my sister who agreed to edit this chunk so I could get it out sooner~

The worst days are when Suzaku looks over the accounting of years past, numbers scribbling across the page in a dead man’s hand. Those are the days where Suzaku spends time staring at blank pages, watches the drift of his paper in the breeze let in by the open window.  

The worst days are when Suzaku looks up to ask Asahina a question and meets Toudou’s eyes instead as the man leans forward to explain it the best he can.

Suzaku doesn’t taste bile anymore when he remembers, but those nights he strips away his shirt, stands next to a mirror and traces Asahina’s bird. It simmers beneath his skin, a sorrowful rage that consumes him, spreading unseen. 

It is a rage that hides beneath his skin, erupting only at the quietest of moments, the moments when it is least expected. Suzaku wonders at it only after the rage has passed, its presence too potent at the time it comes to the surface.

It is a rage that comes, now, when he receives another report that Lelouch has returned more of his men to him, apparently as defenseless as he has always been--

Because Lelouch has been attacked, and there is a lack of comprehension there, that he would take no attempt to guard himself in the same situation.  Because Lelouch is treating the Kururugi clan like some quest, like he will be treated as some unfathomable hero-- the king in chess who will move forward at an unexpected moment.

But there is a difference between this and the games of chess that Lelouch favored: there is no second round. Check in the realm of the yakuza is loss of life and land, and checkmate is destruction of the clan itself. There is nothing for Lelouch to save here, sticking plasters on hemorrhaging wounds. 

Suzaku wants to scream, wants to tear the air before him with steel, because Lelouch is going to be killed. He is going to be killed in this game he does not understand, and there is no reason for him to be involved at all, no connection between him and the clan which has not been severed years past. 

He is supposed to be  _ safe _ , a civilian lost to the passage of time. He is supposed to be safe, someone that Suzaku will encounter in a crowd, twenty or thirty years from now, features wrinkled but still recognizable. He is supposed to be someone that Suzaku can remember fondly, someone untouched by the trouble that is borne into yakuza clans. 

Lelouch is supposed to be-- he is supposed to be part of the past. And the bitterness of bile rises to his tongue, because there is only so much he can do for a civilian, let alone one painting such a large target onto the skin of his heart. 

Lelouch is continuing, and will continue, until the day he grows tired of this strange game or until someone kills him.

The only thing uncertain is which will come faster-- what endgame is Lelouch moving towards, that he will not speak a word towards Suzaku despite the number of men he has returned?

“Success rate,” Suzaku says through numb lips. 

“Still untarnished,” Toudou says.

Suzaku closes his eyes, feels the resignation slip into the marrow of his bones. Something has to be done, and if Lelouch will not be the one to instigate it, it must be Suzaku.

“Contact Kirihara,” Suzaku says, voice as soft as he can manage. “Non-official. I would like to have a game of shogi with him, to see what mind we trust our clans to.”

Toudou departs, easy as always, and-- if there is one thing that Suzaku is grateful to his father for, it is for building Toudou to be the strongest support.

He feels the frustration bubble beneath his skin, still lingering in stress and rage, but it is tempered. It is easy to increase the guard around the station, to place men there that would gladly defend their fledgling lawyer. It is easy to recall how many clans might have a stake in this, to carve out a piece of Kururugi (whether they realize how interconnected Lelouch is or not). It is beyond easy to realize that there is only one path Suzaku can take, now that Lelouch has shown himself to be so brashly adept.

He lets his fingers slip across his back, imagines the weight of the ink on his skin.

The first step to take is Suzaku's.

\-----

A half second before the man exhales, Suzaku severs his throat, a swift motion that sends blood spraying over the walls. It is not a neat thing, _nothing_ about this is neat, but today is about sending a message.  He spits the blood to the ground, watches his men spread out.  His command today is simple, straightforward: drag out this division leader and make him aware that his message was received, clear as the crack of a bone. 

It has been a long time since Suzaku has been on the field with his men, his duties wrapped so finely in thick cloth and paperwork these days. It has been a long time since the thrill of bloodlust has shimmered up Suzaku’s spine, reinforcing it.  

Men are posted at every corridor; and they break down the doors one by one, a cacophony of destruction that makes Suzaku’s blood sing.

He presses fingers to the walls, gestures two of his men forward, and listens to reports coming in from the clan members settled around the compound. They have not found the division leader who decided he would set his men on a civilian, a man who did not have the honor to face the Kururugi openly. 

And that is fine: if the Kururugi clan is challenged, they will pursue their attackers, whether the attack was in the open or not. Beyond that, the clan rules are clear here--

Attacking a civilian is grounds for retribution, especially if the attack is on another’s territory. It is hard written into their minds-- that they are responsible for those who lie in their territory, that an attack on those under their protection is beyond an incitement. It is clearer that retribution can be wrought-- because Suzaku is long tired of peeling away leeches of clans on his territory. 

Tradition is a funny thing, ingrained into their minds like gilded gold. And it is that tradition that fuels their blades this night, and Suzaku will let the men do the damage they desire. This will not be a declaration of war, because this clan has given this division up.

“Take care of it,” one oyabun had said to another, two days ago. 

Irresponsible, perhaps, but it is enough for Suzaku to release the anger that has been simmering since he heard of the attack, the nervousness that has been building up in his bones since he heard Lelouch’s name again.

A shout brings his attention to the front of the room, and two of his men drag the division leader before him, face swollen but otherwise unharmed.  They release him, leave a blade within reaching distance, and take two steps back. A quick glance around the room tells him the rest of the compound is cleared, all but the men stationed at the entrances.  The rest circle the room, watching the division leader hungrily.

The man splutters, eyes wandering around the men.

It is enough of a sign that the man is new, that he hasn’t seen Suzaku yet, and so he waits a full minute before he steps forward.

The other man’s eyes hone in on him, and the shudders begin.

Because Suzaku is not especially tall, or especially built.  But Toudou had told him once that a swordsman is not frightening because of the way they look, but because of the presence they have. The presence to make an opponent lock his knees, to have his grasp draw stiff against a hilt. Suzaku lets his eyes narrow, watches the shudders evolve into quakes, and smiles.

A clansman hands him a white cloth, and Suzaku wipes the blood off of his face, motion gentle amidst the heaviness in the room. When he returns the cloth, he orders, “Pick up the sword.”

“N-no,” the man whimpers, “no, no, please, I didn’t--”

“Hm?” Suzaku says, tipping his head slightly. “Are you saying that you didn’t attack a civilian on Kururugi territory? That you didn’t slip your filthy blade into my territory and think you could hide behind unnamed men and lack of clan recognition?”

“T-they-- my clan-- my clan will have your head for this,” he says desperately.

“Your clan has told us to take our pick of your bones,” Suzaku says, curtly. He lets his voice harden. “Pick up the blade.”

“Y--you’re not supposed to-- to be out in the field anymore--”

“And yet here I am,” Suzaku says. He slides his sword from its sheath, lets its tip rest just before the floor. “I won’t tell you again.”

“W-why are you here--”

Suzaku sighs, steps forward. The man’s words cut off abruptly as he scrambles backwards. He won’t pick up the blade, Suzaku thinks, and he adjusts his grip, bringing his blade parallel the floor. 

The man tries to speak again, but his words this time are cut off by a shriek of pain as Suzaku severs the tendons in his legs with two precise stabs. He steps on the man’s shoulder, brings him to the ground. 

“I wonder if I should leave you here,” Suzaku says, thoughtful. “Leave you as a warning not to touch my territory and my people.”  The man below him is frozen, stiff against the floor even as his blood begins to pool. “Perhaps I would have, if you had the honor to face me as a yakuza and not as a worm.”

“P-please.” The man whimpers, and Suzaku wonders.

He wonders how he has changed, that this man’s pleas are falling to emptiness, to something unthought and something unnurtured. Suzaku wonders what would happen if he left this man here, crippled.  He wonders what his man might do, what messages he might send.

He wonders what revenge he might desire, what people he might target.

He wonders what kind of world they have grown, the oyabun of this time, that honor is so absent among the leaders in their men. 

It’s too easy to bury his blade into the man’s heart, sliding in the space between ribs as precisely as a surgeon’s knife.  It’s too easy to twist his wrist, let the sharp edge tear away at the tissue keeping his body alive. 

It's too easy to meet the eyes of the division leader as he pulls his blade free, to wait as the life drains from the man's eyes before shutting them with a bloody hand.   
  
_ (And his men will whisper at his back, after this night-- that the teeth of the Kururugi oyabun have not grown dull since the time he tore apart the Kozuki.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and suggestions are adored <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suzaku makes a decision.

Suzaku has never been able to defeat Master Kirihara at shogi, and perhaps he never will. He bows his head, accepts defeat as gracefully as he can even as the man’s wrinkled hands begin to slide the pieces back to their starting positions. 

Master Kirihara laughs, a brassy sound, and says, “I have heard rumors that you have a civilian knight.”

A startled sound slips from Suzaku’s mouth, because he has never been good at hiding things from this man. “As perceptive as ever, Master Kirihara.”

“It is not easy to miss,” the man says, dry. “Since you have been so quick to spill blood on his behalf.”

It is difficult not to sound petulant. “I officially contacted the oyabun first.”

“And it is the only reason I have not received any declarations of war,” Master Kirihara allows. “But to ruin an entire division for the sake of a single civilian is quite strange. There will be rumors of how taken you are with the boy.”

“We are not children,” Suzaku says, voice sharper than he intends.

Master Kirihara’s eyes narrow. “You are all children, whether or not your skin is soaked in blood. And you forget that I have seen many oyabun fall to their own hubris.”

“Forgive me,” Suzaku breathes, eyes falling. 

Master Kirihara lets out a gusty sigh, more theatrical than upset, “You are lucky I have grown so fond of you, bloodthirsty brat.”

Suzaku winces. 

“Now then, I assume you have come to do something besides show me how poor you are at shogi.” Master Kirihara shuffles through the pieces on the board, pushes two forward.

Knight.

Dragon.

“Which is it?” He says, voice slipping into something more formal.

Suzaku taps his finger against the knight piece, even as his eyes linger on the dragon.  

Master Kirihara notices, makes a low sound. “If you are not aware of that yet, then you should be watching your men more closely, Kururugi oyabun.”

“I understand.” Suzaku acknowledges. Master Kirihara may be fond of him, but that is nothing in the face of information; Suzaku will have another puzzle to wander through after this discussion is done. “I intend to talk to you about my civilian knight.”

“As expected,” Master Kirihara says, “so curious about the toys near you.” He drops his hand to the table. “There are clans that are unhappy with him, and who are unhappier still because the Kururugi clan defends him so fervently.”  _ The balance will tip soon _ , is left unspoken.

“Is it better to let him remain a civilian, or to mark him Kururugi?” Suzaku asks, answer already pounding behind his ears.

Master Kirihara gives him a dry look. “There are very few who do not already call him Kururugi.”

 

\------

 

Of those lost against the Kozuki clan six years ago, Asahina is the one that Suzaku thinks of the most, the one who draws forth sadness that blurs the edges of his vision and leaves him feeling hollow. There is no rhyme or reason to the sadness, just a gentle ebb that curls its fingers around his lungs and lingers.  

Asahina had no family, his blood relatives gone long before Suzaku was born, and as a result Suzaku and Toudou were the ones to clear his quarters when the war had been settled. A junior clan member had protested, at first, but grief was an irrational thing and the boy had vanished in the face of it. In a way, it had been a nightmare swathed in memory, as though Asahina would waltz in to find them rifling through his underwear drawer. 

The late man’s room had been full of things-- a lifetime’s worth of things, Suzaku thought.

The only things left of a man, Suzaku thought.

He had cried when he opened Asahina’s accounting notebooks, anguish curving up his spine and his face trembling. At the end of that first day, Toudou had left him there, reading through the meticulous scrawl over the numbered pages. Suzaku reviewed them silently, afraid to speak lest he forgot what Asahina’s voice sounded like.

One notebook was missing-- evidence that needed to be lost. It was the first time Suzaku had hated the police.

Asahina was kind, Suzaku thinks now. Honor was never a question, but something that clung to the man with a cloying sweetness, as though to draw people in.  He was frighteningly intelligent, a thinker in stages and form as opposed to the brute force tactics that Genbu (and now, Suzaku) favored.

And you learn to value names, as a yakuza. You learn to remember who is honest, who is true, who will protect your back in times of need.  You learn who to place your trust in, even if you’ve never met; you learn who to depend on to make sure you survive. You learn who will collect debts like playing cards, and who should never be crossed. 

Of those in the Kururugi clan, Asahina was the one with the widest web. He had friends and ears across Japan, had a penny collection of the debts he was owed, and was respected for his skill with both sword and word long before his rank became worth anything.  

Suzaku learned these things through flowers and condolences. He learned how people mourned Asahina with trinkets and tears, with plane tickets and clan names hidden. Because for Suzaku, Asahina was not a name.  Asahina was a guide, the person who encouraged him to have friends and showed up for his parent-teacher meetings. Asahina was the one who wanted him to fall in love, wanted him to think of happiness as important.

Suzaku didn’t know the Asahina these people were mourning, but their Asahina shared a life with the one he loved, so he added his tears to their grief.

Now, he aches for Asahina’s words, wonders what he would say if he knew Suzaku had tangled his heart in another person, and that when he cut it free he had left a piece of him behind. He wonders what Asahina would say if he knew how carefully Suzaku guards the memories of that night.

Instead, Asahina’s bird on his back stays silent, and Suzaku tries not to resent it.

 

\------

 

Violence is easy, a breath of motion after thought. It is easier than Suzaku remembered, being among his men to tear apart their enemy. He wonders what the other oyabun think, that he slips into the ranks of his men to bare his teeth personally, so different than the old men who hide behind their honor guard. 

So different from the men who war with words, who see men and territory as numbers and blood spilled; the men who have never buried a blade in another. Of all those seeped in yakuza tradition, these are the men who understand the most of honor but the least of taking a life. It is their goal to keep these men from staining their hands, to fight their wars with money and clout.

It is strange, the poison that has seeped into their ranks, that has made the modern yakuza so eager to show their skill.

It is something that stains the blades of too many men, something that ages them before their time and twists their being more than living in this poisoned world ever could. There are too many men who break, who cannot weigh both life and honor; and these men are the ones most at risk for slipping into their society, those who are looking for stability to weather the storm that time brings.  And Suzaku is no exception, blood on his hands since the day his mother slipped away--

Vengeance that has been bred since the moment his mother’s pale hands caressed his cheek for the last time--

He remembers white flowers, white flowers filling up the room and the cloying smell of rancid flowers. The smell of flowers still makes him nauseous, even mixed with the sharp taste of salt on his lips. It is difficult to remember much else, blurred, but he remembers--

He remembers his father’s back, surrounded by a legion of men.

How many children feel that way, Suzaku wonders. How many children grow up in the clan, lost and untethered? How many of them can even comprehend the oaths their fathers have sworn. 

And how many of them will grow up with their fathers next to them, will have their fathers hold their hands when they cry and kiss their cheeks when they are wed.  

The ink on the tip of Suzaku’s pen destroys that possibility for two children; a good man lost to a stab wound that no one saw. 

This is not a world that Suzaku would dare bring a civilian into, he is sure now more than ever. And yet, if Lelouch is slipping his way into their world, if he insists on stepping through the barriers in his path: something must be done. Lelouch can not be left to continue, not if he is meant to remain sane: not if he is to remain safe.

And if Kirihara speaks the truth, there is very little difference now. The Kururugi clan has adopted Lelouch in spirit if not in name, and leaving him in his current place is dangling a warm carcass in front of vultures.

It is time for Lelouch to step into their world, to accept the consequences that come with it.  
  
Suzaku can only hope he reaps the rewards he desires, for all of the chains he will be accepting.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suzaku wonders what kind of oyabun he turned out to be, that he has driven the clan to this point.

Whispers trail behind Suzaku when he walks through the halls these days, slipping in his wake and filling his footsteps. They are shackles of expectation, of admiration, and Suzaku holds tight to them, the bonds of sake and sworn blades. He is not the mastermind Genbu was, that much he can see from the hostility that bubbles in the faces of the other oyabun. But Suzaku is his successor, nevertheless, and Kirihara’s favor stays the malignant words growing under their tongues. 

“There is much that can inspire others,” Asahina had told him once, “But nothing so much as skill. Wealth has its limits, governed by too many and poorly distributed.” He had tucked his hands behind his head, sipping from a sweet caramel latte (overly sweet--  _ overly bitter _ , Suzaku thinks).  “That’s why it’s so important to have someone you trust watching your finances,” Asahina had cautioned. “Because more than your strength, your men rely on you to support them in times of need. And that’s whether they are foolish or intelligent, because when you exchange sake, the bond you forge is--”

“Is greater than blood,” Suzaku had interrupted, so proudly. “Is greater than friendship or love. Because it is a bond formed of honor and of strength, the noblest of all bonds between men.”

Asahina had laughed, a bright sound against the stark darkness of Suzaku’s last memory of him. “Right,” he had said, laughter still in his voice, “But you have to keep in mind that not all men are honorable, Suzaku. And it is as much their duty to uphold you and make you proud to call them brothers as it is your duty to carve out a place for them in this world.”

And Suzaku wonders what kind of oyabun he turned out to be, that he has driven the clan to this point. Suzaku’s blade slips from its sheath with barely a whisper, but the scream of his clansman when it pierces through his hand is anything but.

Two girls-- children, not associated with the Kururugi clan-- shriek and back away, eyes darting between the blood starting to spill from the open wound and man on the ground. They are unarmed, Suzaku takes in with a glance, and he lets them breathe for a moment longer before he speaks. “Allow me to apologize for my subordinate’s foolishness in accosting you this evening,” Suzaku says, even as he twists the blade minutely. “I’ll ensure he doesn’t approach you again.” 

He looks to the whimpering man on the ground, dismissing them, but it is only with a small amount of surprise that he hears one of the girls speak up.

“What about the drugs,” the taller one says, brazen-- and her eyes are swollen, not from tears of fright as Suzaku had first thought, but something two shades more sinister: addiction.  Her lips are pulled tight, and the shivering wracking her body are signs of craving, of need. Her friend is trying to tug her away, but both of their eyes are fixated, hungry, and still on the man bleeding on the ground.

Suzaku’s core goes cold when he turns his eyes on the man below him.

“Forgive me, oyabun,” the man is sobbing, kneeling as he curls around the place where Suzaku continues to pin his hand down.

Suzaku turns dark eyes on the girls, removes his blade with an efficient tug. He wipes the blood off of his blade before sheathing it.

His hands are steady even as he lets out a shuddering breath. It is without effort that his voice goes sharp, a second blade honed under his father’s watchful eyes and the only one he would ever allow himself to use against unarmed civilians. “There is nothing he can give your tortured bodies.” He punctuates the sentence with the final click of his blade, lets it linger in the stillness that lingers between them. 

“Okay,” the smaller one says, her hair tucked behind her ears, a tiny humanity that makes Suzaku’s chest ache. “Okay, we’ll go-- we’ll go, right?” 

Her taller friend lets out a shuddering breath, but goes.  They look back several times before turning a corner-- but whether they are making sure he does not follow them or hoping he disappears into the mist like an apparition of the night, Suzaku could not say.

Because it is clan business, Suzaku lets his brother pick himself up, walks back to the compound with the man at his back.  If any honor lingers in him, if the sake they exchanged so many days ago has still left its mark in the vessels that carry his lifeblood: the man will not run.  And if he runs, if he buries a blade in Suzaku’s back and tries to disappear, the men will tear him apart on the streets, their footsteps the cries of ghouls in the night.

The sentry who greets them looks alarmed at the blood, but Suzaku shakes his head minutely and they enter the clan compound unaccosted.

There is a room, in the Kururugi compound, where Genbu’s presence continues to linger.  The air is stale with his favorite incense; and the piano wire that his words had strung across the room cut at Suzaku still when he enters the room.  In Genbu’s time, this was the room where he held formal clan meetings, rows of men gathered to air out their grievances and hear their oyabun’s word.  There is a sharp anger, hand in hand with overwhelming duty, that pervades the room-- and it is a room that Suzaku has never tried to change.  This is the room where men bound themselves to Kururugi, first by sake and then by honor.

It is here, too, that men must ask forgiveness from their sworn brothers.

When the men gather, they are silent as the transgressor forces the blade down, guardians and timekeepers of the clan. This is an event that will never be recorded, will be kept in the memories of those present alone, a reminder of what they swore they day Suzaku became oyabun.  There is silence when the shuddering man offers Suzaku a bloody parcel. 

His hand is ruined, Suzaku thinks, pierced through the palm with a stab and top pinky joint severed. His hand is ruined, but it is one of the finest  _ yubitsume _ Suzaku has ever seen, the first Suzaku has had to accept.  

(Later that night, Suzaku learns the name of the drug that the girls were hunting from the lips of his clansman.

_ Refrain _ .)

 

\------

 

“One of the triads,” Lloyd offers as he slips a sweet into his mouth. “They’re the only ones who are brazen enough to sell it in Japan  _ these _ days.” The wrapper crackles unpleasantly in his hand as he peers at the ingredients.

“Refrain,” Suzaku says. “And what advantage would they had for carrying it into Japan now? When it would have been so much easier before the importation laws were revised?”

“I wonder,” Lloyd muses, cheerful.

Toudou clears his throat, pointed, “There has been a rumor that a power struggle is underway.”

“Oh, yes,” Lloyd agrees, “The illness of Lihua 489-- he’s been quite a nasty leader even with his enforced bed rest.”

“A power struggle?” Suzaku questions. “But the Lihua triad doesn’t have a presence in Japan-- why would they be pushing in now?”

“A dying man’s wish, perhaps,” Lloyd says, “Else a power hungry brat trying to show off his worth. Who can really say?”

“It may be another triad,” Toudou cautions, “Japan is not an unappealing market for these drugs.”

Later, when the conversation has drifted to the men and the condition of the blades of the men, Suzaku mentions, offhand, that he would be interested in acquiring a new pair of short blades for a new member. Lloyd’s eyes gleam with suspicion behind his glasses frames, but he takes the order.

And later still, when Lloyd has gone, Toudou catches Suzaku’s wrist and cautions, “If one member is selling drugs, there will be more in our midst.”  
  
Suzaku doesn’t let the shout of frustration pass his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Lelouch.

It is difficult for Suzaku to understand the minds of men, sometimes. It is difficult to understand what drives men to make decisions that cause them fear, that cause them to cower before him.  

Suzaku is not a tyrant, nor is he lacking inexperience in absolution. 

The men before him are those whom Lelouch has released, precious men who huddle before him. And from their lips comes the poison. 

This has not been an isolated incident: Refrain is a drug they have heard whispers of, have experienced, have sold. The corruption lies deep in the Kururugi clan, festering while Suzaku focused on the outward threat. Someone has sewn weakness and addiction into the bonds of their brotherhood, and it turns Suzaku’s belly sour. 

He dismisses them, watches them vanish from his sight like wisps of smoke. 

They will bear the weight of the decisions they make, but there is a step here that he has missed: some person or supplier who is pressing against their clan carelessly.

That night, Suzaku will make an announcement: The presence of Refrain in the Kururugi territory will not be accepted, neither in Kururugi members or those outside. Anyone identified for distributing the drug will be punished.

He can only hope it is enough; and there are more things, still, that remain in the interim.

“Find him,” Suzaku orders finally. The longer Lelouch stays unprotected, the more likely it is that another clan will take interest in him. It is difficult to say whether Lelouch’s skill with the law would protect him, but it is certain that he would come to harm before anyone could find out.

Toudou bows, “Understood.”

_ (It will be two days before they have his whereabouts, three days before Suzaku will order that he be detained, four days before they meet again. _

_ It could be too soon, Suzaku thinks, crazed. It has been too long already.) _

 

\------

 

Drugs and men, money and blood, Suzaku thinks, lets the tip of his sword drags through the incense smoke. A half step backwards and a twist of his wrist brings his sword parallel to his body, and he spins once, letting it slip into his orbit. The weight pulls him forward and he follows it, lets it draw him into familiar kata that bring him peace of mind. The courtyard is empty, this early in the morning. It gives him room to stab forward, imagine an enemy who sidesteps him and moves quickly inwards. Two sweeping steps backwards and he deflects the invisible blade, katas slipping into a match he craves more than anything else.

He twists his waist to put more force into his swing, comforted by the smooth sound that it makes as it breaks apart the air. He swings the blade again, advancing.

There is something disturbing about the unknown, a shard of glass waiting to be glued into place. There is something disturbing about the manner in which it has shattered in unexpected places, tearing flesh with sharp edges as it slots neatly into place. There is something disturbing about the splinters it leaves behind, hidden from sight.

Lelouch is an unknown right now, Suzaku thinks, feels his breath grow heavier. Lelouch is an unknown, is both a risk and at risk, and the only thing Suzaku can do now is make him a known entity: force him into the light.

He isn’t sure what to say, that he is facing the other male again out of necessity.  But he can’t leave Lelouch hanging in the balance-- there are too many pieces Suzaku can not control, too many plots brewing that he can not see. Master Kirihara has warned him something is coming-- the drugs, perhaps, or something more sinister still. 

But Suzaku was the one who drew Lelouch into the world, brief as it might have been, all those years ago.

So Suzaku must take responsibility. That, too, is his duty.

 

\------

 

When they finally meet, it is simpler than Suzaku could have ever imagined. Lelouch is taller now, shoulders wider and face more mature. He’s surprised at the regret he feels, for missing the reasons that Lelouch changed. He’s surprised at echo of dull rage that beats in his chest when he sees the careful way Lelouch is holding himself, the rise of his hand to support his abdomen as he rises when Suzaku enters the meeting room; the way he watches Suzaku with bright eyes.

Suzaku motions for him to sit, and he does, just as stiffly as he rose. He had been very compliant, Toudou had reported, and had arrived unharmed. Lelouch is in a suit, a shining pin attached to his lapel, and he folds his hands over his lap.

Suzaku closes his eyes once, centering himself. He places his blade against the wall. The attendants are dismissed with a nod. 

He sits across the table from Lelouch, eyes focused. “I would like to thank you for taking care of my men.”

Lelouch is watching his mouth, and Suzaku resists the urge to wet his lips. “Certainly,” the other male says, his voice deeper than Suzaku remembers. The set of his shoulders is just the same, still entitled and slightly arrogant.

Memories are useless sentiments here, and Suzaku pushes them away. “You are taking a great deal of personal risk by doing so,” he cautions, but there is a sharp feeling of protectiveness rising in his chest, a willingness to cut into anyone who would do the other harm. It is a dangerous sentiment, for a man who Suzaku has not seen in years.

“I know,” Lelouch says, voice flippant but eyes unyielding. “It is a risk I willingly take.” 

“You would be willing to endanger yourself for a clan you have no ties to,” Suzaku states, watches Lelouch flinch. The aftershock of a wince catches Suzaku in the chest, and he leans forward, hand raised.

Lelouch watches him warily, something Suzaku has never--

He brushes away the unnecessary emotion. He draws his fingers against Lelouch’s jacket, watches and waits for Lelouch to relax. The other male does so, and Suzaku puts gentle pressure on the ribs.

They are sturdy under his fingers, a touch too thin and bony. But they are intact, not shattered beneath the prim and proper coat Lelouch is sporting.  

“You have already endangered yourself,” Suzaku says, softer than he intends, “and brought harm to your body. And that is your choice, but what of those around you? Your parents, or siblings perhaps.” He leans back, lets his fingers linger a moment more before drawing them into his lap.

“My parents are long dead,” Lelouch says, a strange quirk to his lips, “and my only sister is in China for schooling, beyond the reach of these minor injuries.”  He smooths down the place Suzaku had been touching, as if to brush off any residual warmth from his injury.

“Then you are standing before without claim,” Suzaku says.

“To no one except the Law,” Lelouch responds, half-casual. “But it would have been hard for you to miss that.”

Suzaku lets his lips curl up slightly as he agrees. “It would have been hard to miss the sudden influx of men.”

“...But you’ve done well for yourself,” Lelouch says. “As the--” His lips form the word, but the sound is absent.

“The oyabun,” Suzaku offers, sobered by the stark reminder that the man before him is a civilian.

“I heard, after,” Lelouch says, a gentle stab into Suzaku’s chest, “that your father had passed. I am sorry for your loss.”

Suzaku can’t bite back the shudder, the tension that comes to his shoulders. “It was a long time ago,” Suzaku says curtly. “And beyond that, it was not your place to know.”  _ Or to remain here _ , he thinks, but stops himself from saying it.

Lelouch stares at him, eyes as defiant as the day they first met, and Suzaku wishes they were young again, that Suzaku had the freedom to bow his head and apologize for the crude child he had been. But he is an oyabun now, and such an action carries a different weight, is something he can not do without considering the ramifications. 

“...Still,” Lelouch says. “Still, I am sorry for your loss and happy you have been successful in the aftermath.”

“Thank you.” Suzaku breathes, pulling the iron from his spine with a slow exhale. 

“What am I doing here, Suzaku?” Lelouch asks, his voice anything but inquisitive.

“If you are unaware, I would be quite concerned,” Suzaku replies, “because you have been quite singular in diving your way into Kururugi clan affairs.”

Lelouch tips his head in acknowledgment. 

“You must have noticed that the attacks on you have been increasing in-- boldness, if not in number.”

“Yes,” Lelouch agrees, nonchalant.

“You will  _ die _ ,” Suzaku says, surprised at his own vehemence. “You will die if this continues, will be torn apart by a clan lackey trying to show worth to men who could care less if his balls have dropped.” He loosens the fist in his pants. “And you will have accomplished  _ nothing _ .”

“I will have freed innocent men,” Lelouch says, and Suzaku wants to scream  _ they weren’t innocent-- they have never been innocent since they took on the name Kururugi. _ “And I will have died doing something I believed in.”

Suzaku sighs.

“Besides that, I am sure the Japanese Law Association would be offended by your dismissal of my certification, since they were quite rigorous in making sure I was a suitable candidate.”

Suzaku watches Lelouch’s face, the way his eyes remain steady and true. “You will lose what freedom remains if you take this path.”

“With all due respect,” Lelouch says, lets his fingers curl against the shell of his ear as he pushes back his hair, “I have not been free in a long time. Offer it, and let me judge."

It seems impossible, but Suzaku had forgotten: Lelouch has never made the normal choice.

“The Kururugi clan would have you take on an honorary position as a lawyer.” Suzaku offers, sees the way Lelouch’s lips move to answer before he finishes.

“I accept,” Lelouch says.

“You fool,” Suzaku responds, feels the words like cotton in his mouth. “You should have left.”

Lelouch considers him, eyes flickering over his face. “I could have,” he agrees. 

Suzaku lets out a sigh. “You’ve become more foolish,” he complains, gentler than he would have liked.

Lelouch frowns. “You are just as rude as you were in the past.”

The reminder rings hollow in his chest, and Suzaku stands.

“I have another meeting,” he says, dismissive even as his heart pounds. He slides the door open to see Nagisa and Toudou in the hall, heads bowed and swords at their waists. He doesn’t look back when he steps through the door, hand collecting his blade as he does so.  “Toudou will explain your duties to you.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s strange now, Suzaku thinks, that someone in Asahina’s position-- the group leader who managed the internal affairs-- would take time to teach a child, whether he was the future oyabun or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year~! 
> 
> I am a chapter behind in responding to comments but I will catch up soon, and if you've left one, thank you for the extra dose of motivation! :D

When Suzaku was younger ( _ young, so young _ ), Asahina would take him to different coffee shops to try different pastries. It was a funny thing, to go to a place named after coffee and not purchase any there, but Asahina ruffled his hair and called him too old, and would shove the pastry of the day into his hand. On their adventures, Asahina would order fancy drinks, ones with whipped cream piled high, nuts and chocolate bits, syrups and names that felt foreign in Suzaku’s ears. The drinks were fun to look at, more colorful than the coffee they served at the compound, and Asahina would drink down the liquid long before they left the shoppe. It became tradition to pop the lid off the concoction, then, and they would trade a spoon as they ate the fancy fluff that hadn’t gotten a chance to drip into the vanished drink, sweet caramel and cream dancing across Suzaku’s tongue.

Asahina liked sweet drinks, liked them more than pastries, but after he discovered Suzaku would rate a store on the speed at which Asahina finished his drink rather than how delicious their snacks were, he would always sneak a bite. 

The shops Suzaku liked the best were always the shops they returned to the most.

They would sit in coffee shops, Asahina inventing stories of men who passed them, girls gathered in pleated skirts and couples pressing hands together under the table. Every girl was a protagonist of a grand story, pieced together with the way her hair fell, the drink she ordered and the way she smiled. Every businessman had a deal about to go under, some accounting they didn’t understand, and Suzaku frowned at Asahina at the discrepancy between the two. The older man had laughed at him, drifted a hand through hair that had curled even more rebelliously then.  

“The best stories are ones about youth,” Asahina had said, his voice near a whisper. “Because they haven’t given up yet, you see. There’s still a grand adventure ahead of them, some gargantuan task that needs to be tackled. Every assignment, every relationship is a hurdle they will run towards, because they haven’t been taught yet how to accept failure. And you’ll understand, one day, when you’re old and cranky, that one of the marvelous things about youth is how much energy they have. Energy enough to throw into caring about others, into protecting others and learning more.”

Suzaku had rolled his eyes, fourteen and uncertain what Asahina meant (ignoring the echo of his father’s words in the back of his mind). He slapped his maths textbook on the table, staring at Asahina imperiously, and the man had laughed and laughed and laughed.

It’s strange now, Suzaku thinks, that someone in Asahina’s position-- the group leader who managed the internal affairs-- would take time to teach a child, whether he was the future oyabun or not.  It’s strange, Suzaku thinks, fingers tracing the edges of worn math textbooks, tucked in between years of financial records. His head is spinning, eyes blurring with exhaustion, and he tucks his sword up against him, twines his arm around the scabbard because he fears he couldn’t breathe otherwise, all thought lost to the roar inside his own head.  It’s so strange, his mind stutters, but Asahina was strange, too. A good swordsman, he knew, but one out of practice ( _out of practice,_ part of him wails, _if he had been in practice, he could be alive now, alive and here, smile warm and teasing_ ).

There are names that resound in the yakuza community, even now. Of the names sworn to the Kururugi clan, Asahina was the only one who was not born to a yakuza family. Asahina was a civilian, one who decided to enter the Kururugi clan-- and, Suzaku thinks, staring the unassuming triangles gracing the cover of the textbook--and, he is the one who would have understood Lelouch’s precarious position the most. 

How do you make a place for yourself in a clan where you have no bonds of brotherhood?

How can you smile afterwards?

Asahina had smiled so much, had always been laughing at Suzaku. But there was something there, something tinged with sadness that was long worn away; something Suzaku had never dared to touch.  

Toudou might know, Suzaku realizes abruptly. Toudou and Asahina had worked out of each other’s pockets, discussions lighting candles long into the night to provide Genbu with the best possible steps to proceed in any situation. 

(When he asks, Toudou’s face stiffens for the barest moment, and the smile that the older man gives him feels like it should be accompanied by weeping, utter sorrow. The older man tells him nothing, but they share a cup of sake before Suzaku excuses himself from the room.)

 

\-----

 

Suzaku accepts the wooden box that Lloyd holds out, weighty and polished. When he slides the cover open, twin blades sit in soft silk, their sheathes at their sides.  He lifts the short swords from their case, tests their sharpness and balance. 

They slide through the air easily, faster than the katana he favors. Suzaku twists the swords in his hands, lets their edges catch the light. 

“An interesting choice,” Lloyd comments, while Suzaku places them back in the box. “Since I had certainly been under the impression that you were more fond of the longer blades. Shall I keep an eye out for additional short blades?”

Suzaku closes the lid, hiding the steel from the rest of the room. “No,” he says. “This will be enough. Your payment will go to the usual account.”  
  
“Of course,” Lloyd says, and nothing more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time will continue to pass.

There are days of the year when Suzaku feels buried in duty, where the weight could drag him into the ground and crush his bones.  These are the days when the clan watches him, careful at the sharp edges that are exposed to the air. He lingers in bed, these days, lets the sunlight stream into the room and across the walls, to fill the space with suffocating heat. 

A knock at his door makes him rise, pull on the clothing he had set out the previous night. By the time the door slides open, he is standing, sword at his side. Nagisa is in the hall, eyes down, and murmurs that the car is ready. On his table, she leaves a bouquet of white lilies.

He wonders, sometimes, who he is doing this for. Is he doing this for them, that they are remembered; is he doing it for his clan, to show he is a dutiful son; is he doing it for himself, to prove to himself that he has moved on?  When he goes to the grave, it will be clear of weeds and old ash-- the work of clan members who maintain the grave (every  _ day _ , more dutiful than the words Suzaku whispers to the altars in his father’s old room). 

The path from his room to the car has never seemed so long, familiar faces turned away from his journey, as though he, too, has become a shade. The smile that comes to his lips is bitter, but mourning is a duty, too. And it is one he will never pass to another, because these are the people who raised him to his place, the flesh and blood that built the family that remains.

A hollowness has settled in his throat, and Suzaku has nearly reached his car when someone steps in front of his procession, figure familiar only in its defiance. 

“I wanted to ask you about--” the man in front of him says, stops, abrupt. “Suzaku, are you--” He reaches a hand towards Suzaku, as if to slide it against his cheek ( _ his neck, his shoulders as Suzaku bites down into pale flesh, marking him the only way he can--) _

Suzaku grabs his wrist, squeezes hard as if to imprint the warmth onto his palm-- imagines that he could squeeze their hands tightly together enough to bind them beyond the formality of a contract and the circling rings of steel that jailers prefer.

“Suzaku,” Lelouch says, skin reddening beneath Suzaku’s grasp but not struggling. His eyes are bright, too intelligent and Suzaku’s skin shivers. “Are you okay?”

It is an abrupt reminder that Lelouch does not belong here. He releases Lelouch’s wrist. “Another time, Lelouch.” Suzaku says, as gently as he can while his heart threatens to tear itself from his flesh.

 

\------

 

They always send a girl to his room, the day he visits the graves. In the six years that have passed, the trend has always been the same-- a reasonably attractive woman is in his room shortly after he returns; her breasts and legs are always immodestly clothed.

She is always scared. 

Some women hide it better than others, cloaked behind quirked lips and sensual movement. Still, it lingers behind their eyes, in their hesitance: they know who he is, and they fear the damage he could bring upon their families if he is displeased.

In the past six years, Suzaku has never touched the girl, has offered her tea and a silent apology.  They have left unmolested and paid, confused but accepting. 

Today, the difference is the heat that lingers in Suzaku’s palm from that morning, the thin wrist he could encircle so easily. So when this girl sits in front of him, any fear hidden behind a solemn demeanor, he reaches a hand and cups her chin, tilts her face towards the light. She is familiar in a tragic way, and Suzaku could not place which of his dead men she called kin. But she is not afraid of him, not in the way the other girls have been, and this is perhaps why he leans in and lets their lips slide together.

Her lips are soft, soft and sticky with a gloss. When they break apart, Suzaku brings his hand away from her face. She is warm; she is present and aware of the situation she is in. Whoever this girl is, she has known the Kururugi clan, through her kin and with her own eyes. And it is this that makes Suzaku consider her, to think of lacing his fingers with hers and tying their fates together. Because of the women that have entered his domain, who have been aware of what they were being asked for-- this woman is the one who might stay by his side; who might tuck his face into her shoulder and let him rest. 

She is watching him, something sad in the way her shoulders are tilted. 

“I’m sorry,” Suzaku says, returns his hand to his side. “Thank you for your time.”

She smiles at him, a strange and twisted thing which does not reach her eyes, but she departs. Suzaku wonders what she knows, that she could feel so torn.   
  
He sits in silence after the door has closed behind her, waits until the tapping of her footsteps have become too far to hear. He breathes out, a shuddering thing, brings his palms to his eyes before letting the wet sob escape his lips.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On potential and lost loves.

_I could fall in love with you_ , Suzaku thinks, helplessly. He watches the curve of Lelouch’s lips, imagines striding forward and pressing against them, of slipping his fingers along the curve of the other’s bottom lip and watching violet eyes darken. Soft pillows and warmth just before dawn, linked fingers under the bedsheets.  

Instead he murmurs a strangled, “Good work,” watches Lelouch’s smile grow just a fraction brighter, and then turns to Toudou to see what the next piece of work is.

(And this is something he will does not see: Nagisa narrowing her eyes at him, thoughtful; Toudou shrugging when she looks at him in askance.)

This is what he will see: as he turns, Lelouch’s smile dips downwards, a shadow of what it was, and by the time Suzaku can think of it again he is long gone, back to his home or to the jail for his next greatest trick.

Many of the advisors think of Lelouch as a miracle worker, some grand and influential man come to save their poor oyabun who is out of his depth. The new advisors, the ones who don’t remember Genbu, who never saw the end of the Kozuki conflict, think of him as a generous man. Those who remember the bloodshed that brought Suzaku to their helm know otherwise: Lelouch is a poison, one which Suzaku has been inoculated against once, and may not be successful doing so again. Lelouch is something transformative, something that will shake their current structure to pieces if their oyabun doesn’t handle him right.

And if he makes poor decisions, then it is their duty to help him out of them, to guide his hand to make their clan as strong and honorable as they always dreamed it would be.

Nagisa does not lay her chips with either camp, because she has seen this happen before, a generation ago. But she won’t voice it, because the last time it ended in the birth of a child who knew the sword better than his father’s voice, the death of a woman in a skirmish not her own. She’ll watch over the way that Lelouch changes when Suzaku turns away, as best she dares, because whatever decision her oyabun makes she must be certain that he is capable of weathering it.

 

\------------

 

The paper trail says nothing; there is nothing in the papers that were so carefully crafted that links the Lihua clan to them--

There is nothing, and Suzaku stares blankly at the lines that fall across the page.  

“There must be something,” he murmurs, and orders his advisors to continue looking.

There must be something, some precedent: otherwise, why would they be approaching the Kururugi men with drugs?

There must be _something_ , he thinks, feverish.

 

**\----------------**

 

 _The greatest thing in the world is to fall in love,_ Suzaku remembers his mother saying to him, voice a gentle caress. Her fingers carded through his hair absently, brushing past the curls he inherited from her.  His mother always smelled of medicine and fresh linens ( _metal, gunpowder, **blood**  _)-- the smell of sunlight filtering into a hospital room, joy blanketing an utterly quiet despair.  He doesn’t remember her face anymore, details blurred by the careful fingers of time.

He doesn’t remember her face anymore, but he remembers the feeling of her hands.

As a child, her hands were his world, reassurance after bruising training, his constant barrier from his oyabun’s expectations and presence. In the days of his childhood, she was his guide, the one who stuck his crumbling pieces together when the world was too difficult for him to bear.

Suzaku stands from his desk, lets the sheaf of paper flutter from his fingertips. He imagines the sheets crash against the floor like bullets, shattering the ground with the weight of the words they bear.  People say that something as fleeting, as fragile, as the wings of a butterfly can bring the weight of a storm upon the world, but Suzaku has never believed it until this moment.  

There is movement in his peripheries, and Suzaku’s hand slips to the hilt of his sword as he tracks the figure, breath pulled tight in his chest.  His eyes are fixated on the paper below him, the beating of his heart resounding in his ears-- the air in his lungs pulled from his chest with the force of the ocean’s tide, sweeping and relentless. He wonders if he can inhale, the pounding in his ears beginning to make his vision narrow, as though the paper on the floor is the largest enemy in his space.

And yet-- there is a man, an advisor, gawking at him, mouth open to _question_ him, to _berate_ him, to _challenge_ him. Suzaku’s fingers curl around the hilt of his sword, even as pain invades his chest, the phantom pain of a novice with a butter knife.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Toudou raise a hand, feels rather than sees the room begin to empty.  And as their presences pull out of the room, there is space and air and when he inhales it is that much duller.  Nagisa kneels before him, gathers the few sheets that have fallen. Her neck is bent and exposed, fragile and bare.  

Suzaku watches her numbly, lets his fingers go slack against his sword. When she places a neat pile on his desk, his breath has slowed and the room is empty but for him and Nagisa.

“She was a wonderful woman,” Nagisa says, her lips quirked gently. “Far too good for your father.”  She isn’t looking at him, eyes fixated on the photos printed on the top sheet. Her fingers drift over the twisted frame of the car, shrapnel tearing through the damnably bright day. “I wonder, sometimes, how much you remember of her-- and I could tell you so many stories of her, because weak as she was, she loved you and your father stupidly.”

Suzaku releases his sword, and it drops back against his leg, the softest comfort.

“I--” He swallows his words when Nagisa turns to face him, lines deeper in her face than he has ever seen. Because she is more than a woman who coddled him at times, more than the advisor who sits beside him-- she was one of his mother’s dearest friends.  And he has never seen her grief, memories of that time whittled away by the sharp hollow that loss brings, but it is persisting in the air now, something that lingers between the two of them and the empty room around them.

“I was so angry the first time I met her,” Nagisa admits, “because she chose to be pawn of her father, while she could have been free.”

“Nagisa,” Suzaku warns, not certain of anything but the dread that is creeping along his spine. This is not the time for falling into the past-- this is not--

Nagisa’s face changes, a slip into something half a shade more solemn, more sad. “You were her greatest joy,” Nagisa says, “and I will not betray you, oyabun. I swore it to her the day she broke apart on the ground.” Her fingers sweep across the images once more. “And I swore it to you the day you ascended. We are _blood_. And if you command it, I will tear apart the man who dared to bring these photos into the light.”

She will never say it, but this is a challenge: a test to see whether Suzaku can creep past the hurt still lingering in his lungs. “It was maliciously done,” he says, finally, “but it was important for me to see.” He reaches forward, lets Nagisa search his eyes before she lifts her hand.  Suzaku flips past the first page, forces his eyes to take in the grisly images and register the stark, clinical words. “It is only proper that I thank him myself.”

The older woman’s lips draw upward, almost baring her teeth, when she smiles. “Of course, oyabun,” she defers, “I will let him know to find you in the courtyard with his blade.”

(Suzaku doesn’t turn to watch her leave, too captured by the dispassionate descriptions on the page. When he gets to the last page, he presses his fingers to the document. The moisture from his cheeks is captured by steady fingers before they can blend with the words on the page.  
  
He never wanted to remember his mother this way.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is about to break, or has already broken.

Suzaku sees Lelouch exit the black car at the entrance of the compound, a man following behind him closely: the most recent of the men Lelouch has championed. 

“Have Lelouch meet me in the office,” Suzaku says. He leaves for his office, knows the message will be carried and his lawyer delivered to him. Paperwork still fills the corners of his desk, and he rubs his eyes as he pulls the newest stack before him.

There is a short period where Suzaku thinks Lelouch won’t show-- that he will defy Suzaku, and in doing so, start to challenge his position in the Kururugi clan.  But there is nothing, nothing but a knock on the door and the sound of Lelouch letting himself in.

“You are being quite productive,” Suzaku says, not looking up from the paperwork. He tracks Lelouch through his peripheries, as the other man sits across from him. His shoulders are wet from the rain, and there is a fleck of--

Suzaku drops the paperwork and leans forward, lets his fingernail scrape against the dried blood on Lelouch’s collar.

“I didn’t clean it well enough, it seems,” Lelouch says.

“What happened,” Suzaku responds.  _ What clan was it _ , he wants to growl.

“It wasn’t yakuza,” Lelouch dismisses. “It was a few teenagers with pocket knives. I wasn’t injured.” 

“It’s rare that anyone would attack someone under my guard if they don’t have a clan to back them up.”

Lelouch looks at Suzaku, something quiet and certain in his eyes. “Well, it would have made more sense if I was the target, I suppose. But I wasn’t.”

Suzaku waits, steady.

“They ran at your clan member, screaming about drugs and waving pocket knives around.”  Lelouch reports. “It was surprising, certainly, but I stayed out of the way and he handled them easily enough.”

Suzaku holds back the sound of frustration. “You will remain in the compound for the next two weeks. No leaving for cases.”

Lelouch frowns. “There is no reason for me to--”

“There is an instability, and you will not stand on the border while we figure it out.”

“I wasn’t even the target,” Lelouch argues. “If you remove me from the field, that is just what the other clans want-- it will be an open season on your innocent men.”

“What if they aren’t innocent, Lelouch,” Suzaku says, the words escaping him before he can formulate them properly. “What if they are guilty and I have been oblivious.”

Lelouch watches him, takes in his tight features, and gently shrugs. “It makes no difference to me whether they are innocent or guilty.”

Suzaku’s eyes snap back to him, angry. “ _ What _ .”

“You heard me,” Lelouch says, challenging. “It doesn’t matter whether they committed a crime or not-- what matters to me is that you are troubled if they are incarcerated, and my job is make sure the law isn’t able to definitively call them guilty.” He smiles, a flat, snakelike thing. “At the end of the day, that’s all that matters.”

Suzaku lets out a shuddering exhale, drops back into his seat.

“Get out.” He orders.

“Suzaku,” Lelouch says, even as he rises. “I will not be kept in your compound like a child to be protected.”

“You  _ are _ to be protected,” Suzaku says. “You’re a civilian, despite whatever contract you’ve signed. You have no combat training-- a child with a knife could take you down, let alone one with a gun.”

Lelouch sighs. “Three days,” he compromises.

“Three days--”

“I will remain in your little compound for three days if none of your men are detained.” Lelouch agrees. “But if they are, then I am going, Suzaku.”

“You owe  _ nothing _ to them, Lelouch--”  _ Why won’t you stay safe _ , Suzaku wants to say. 

“I owe nothing to them,” Lelouch says. “But I owe something to  _ you _ , even if you don’t see it that way.” His smile changes to something softer, his jaw set in a more stubborn hold. “And I won’t forget that.”

It takes Suzaku a moment too long to hear, to realize he doesn’t understand at all. But by the time Lelouch’s name comes to his lips, the other male is gone, vanished behind the door that separates Suzaku from the rest of the clan. 

He drops his hand to the desk, and picks up the phone.

 

\------

 

The rain is an omen, moisture seeping into the starved earth. Something is about to break, or has already broken, and the tides are about to rush onto them. Lightning breaks across the sky, the smell of the rain cloaking any blood this night.

A car pulls to the gates of the Kururugi compound, and the figures drawing out from it carry a bright red umbrella.  Suzaku turns away from the window, moves into the halls to greet them in the audience room, the room that is still tainted with the shadow of his predecessor and the smell of blood. Nagisa falls into step behind him, ordering a clansman to bring tea. When they have moved deeper into the space, she says, “The Kozuki oyabun brought an additional guest. Kallen Kozuki.”

“As expected,” Suzaku says, his lips barely moving.  

“As expected.” Nagisa confirms. “She is here of her own free will, and in peace.”

“Make sure the men do not bother them,” Suzaku orders, mind lingering on the tension that still slips into the men at the name Kozuki. In the next step, Nagisa is vanished from his side. Suzaku breathes easily, two new clansmen meeting him at the entrance of the audience chamber to take his wet overcoat and replace it with a more formal one. They close the door behind him, and he sits in the front of the room, sword placed beside him.

He has been waiting for scarce moments before the door slides open, and they are announced. Ohgi is still pale, still thin, but his eyes are brighter since they met last, Suzaku thinks. He is dressed in a black suit, cut unflattering and awkward around his shape-- another man’s suit. One of his shoulders is soaked through, his hair dripping water onto the floor. Suzaku lets his eyes drift to Kallen. She is garbed in a dark suit as well, one which clings to her chest and waist despite being perfectly dry. 

Suzaku holds back a sigh, nods at the two of them. To the clansman still holding the door open, he orders, “Please bring some towels with the tea.”

“We don’t need towels,” Kallen says, the first words she has spoken in Suzaku’s presence since he tore her title from her. 

“ _ You _ do not need a towel,” Suzaku corrects. “But Kozuki  _ oyabun _ may appreciate one.”  Color rises to her cheeks, and Suzaku slides his attention to Ohgi, who has stiffened at the exchange. “Kozuki  _ oyabun _ ,” he greets.

Ohgi ducks his head, a remnant gesture of the time he followed the woman beside him, and her brother before. “Kururugi  _ oyabun _ ,” he responds, “thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice.”  

Suzaku absently registers tea cups sliding in front of them, a towel handed to the other man. “It sounded urgent,” he admits, “and I have learned that your clan is one which is affected easily by change.” It is not an insult, but Kallen sits straighter and renews her stare.

“We are a smaller clan,” Ohgi says, after glancing at her. “And we have our roots buried shallowly.”

“It is so,” Suzaku agrees, taking a sip of tea to wet his lips. “And you are a broken clan besides.”

“We are doing our best,” Kallen says, short, and Suzaku smiles at her.

“I do not doubt that,” he allows, “because it would have been far easier for you to burn the tattoo off your skin and run into the shadows.” He respects her for that, for sticking to the bonds of family that she swore in place of her brother, despite how shredded those bonds had been all those years ago. “Now then, why have you requested to meet with me?”

“Drugs.” Ohgi says. “There is a new drug being circulated through Japan-- and through the clans.”

Part of Suzaku goes cold, but he nods for the other man to continue speaking.

“It’s called Refrain,” Kallen says. “It...it used to be an imported drug, something you had to get from one of the Triads.” She grips her elbow as she says so, eyes hard and angry.  “They didn’t have a route into Japan since none of the clans would deal with them, not with the government’s naval force watching them so closely.”

“What does a triad have to gain?” Suzaku says, an easy question.

“Revenue stream,” Ohgi says immediately. “Japan is an easy target, given the… particulars of this drug.” He stutters to a stop, and Kallen takes over.

“The drug induces hallucinations,” she says. “It is highly addictive, and is designed to make the user fall into their happiest memories, as a route of escape in their current situation.” She bites her lip, grips her elbow harder, “It isn’t a drug that lets people go easily. High risk, high reward.”

“If they’re developing a route,” Suzaku says, considering, “then there’s is something beyond revenue stream. Drugs are easy to import when addiction is rampant. But if they’re putting the energy and men into development of a route, then something else is-- there is either a new user who is driving its entrance from among the yakuza clans, or a triad with something to prove.”

“I agree,” Ohgi says. “The question is whether or not we want to suppress the development of the route, or if we even have the manpower to do so. The… Kozuki clan has members who are distributing the drug,” he admits, “and we are watching them, but there is only so much our clan can do.”

Suzaku curls his fingers around the hilt of his sword. “We’ll have to talk to Kirihara,” he says. “If we intend to disrupt anything, then we must be more unified than our current stance allows.” Suzaku smiles, wide and harsh. “And if you came to the Kururugi clan you must know that other clans are not willing to show their hand in this matter.”

“Perhaps,” Ohgi allows, and he is a better speaker than he was in time past, in that he knows when to hold back information.

“Contact Kirihara,” Suzaku suggests. “I will put in a separate request once I have gathered more information.” A half-truth lays under his tongue, bitter, but he washes it down with a swallow of tea.

“Are you readying for war?” Ohgi asks. His chin is trembling, a tiny tremor that Suzaku wouldn’t notice if his nerves weren’t wound tight.

_ War with whom _ , Suzaku wants to ask. With the unnamed triad who has managed to spread its roots into the proud yakuza clans of Japan? Or perhaps with the clans who refuse to show their hands, he thinks, who will listen but not offer their secrets in turn. 

Outside, the rain is still falling heavily, smashing against the light that blares out of the buildings.  Thunder is hiding in the distance, like the sound of a hunting hound hiding in the undergrowth, ready to tear the throat out of any prey who dares to pass. It is a daunting sound, one that reminds Suzaku of blood shed and men who have already slipped from life’s embrace.  

“You can never be ready for war,” Suzaku says, hears the echo of it from within his ribcage. Behind him, lightning continues to arc across the sky, and they wait two heartbeats for the sound of thunder. He drinks slowly from his tea. “You can only meet it where you stand, and hope that when it has passed you will still be standing.”

Kallen, not Ohgi, is the one who bows her head in acknowledgement, and Suzaku regrets, for a moment, for severing her from her post.  Because this Kallen he might have been willing to work with, Suzaku thinks.

Ohgi bows a moment later, and the rest of their conversation is short.  

(They leave, with that red umbrella, and Suzaku wonders what this portent is hinting at, what path they’ll be forced to follow next. He knows without looking that the men stalk the Kozuki pair throughout the compound, wanting assurance that the pair will not leave treachery behind.  
  
His men are damaged, Suzaku thinks. But perhaps all men are.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love dulled the mind, interfered with the sword, made someone vulnerable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a long time, friends! <3 If you're returning, thank you for your patience and my apologies for your long wait! I'll try not to make you wait so long next time. ^^;
> 
> Posted in celebration of touchreceptors' birthday! Happy birthday friend! This is not the happiest present but I hope you like it!
> 
> (P.S. If you haven't seen it yet, touchreceptors commissioned(!!!) [amazing art](http://touchreceptors.tumblr.com/post/156040422410/i-commissioned-the-lovely-and-wonderfully-skilled) for Silk and Steel! Please go squee over it!)

These days Suzaku sleeps less, even though the strain between his shoulders and behind his eyes grows heavier, weighting him down. There are too many things to do, too many men who are suspect.

It is true that the Kururugi accounts were being stripped, with the numerous arrests. But Lelouch’s intervention has solved that problem; has reduced the need for any of his men to hunt for extra revenue with this new drug. There is no reason for them to be doing it without his consent, to line the Kururugi coffers without his knowledge.

It is difficult to say whether they are being targeted for arrest, the men who have dipped their hands into the drug trade. Nearly a fifth of the men who Lelouch has recovered have come to him on their own, heads bowed and words clear but quiet. It is difficult to say whether it is coincidence, whether the dealers are easy targets for framing or they have been swept up in yakuza politics as another point of contention. If it is the former, the fact that the men were away from the clan home at strange hours with something to hide-- then it is a simple matter of miscalculation in his men’s subterfuge. But if it is the former, if the other clans are aware of the Kururugi role in Refrain distribution… 

The pen cracks in Suzaku’s hand, ink flowing over his fingertips and onto the pristine paper below. 

Either way the evidence is clear, in Lelouch’s careful handwriting and the men’s shameful admissions: the distribution of Refrain in Japan is rampant in the Kururugi clan and their territory. Suzaku exhales, pressing his thumbs to his temples. If what he fears is true, then there is no point in being willfully blind: the Kururugi clan has fostered the entrance of Refrain to Japan, and he needs to know about it. 

Shit.

\--------------

The men deposit a box of cases before Suzaku, little brown vials of fluid sloshing where they are secured. They are such small things, such tiny things that can ruin a life. He motions for them to close the case, to hide away the vials and aluminum injectors both. 

Drugs are things of terror, Suzaku thinks, quiet. The first time-- the first time you take them, how desperate do you have to be; how much do you have to crave something you have never had (may never have again). The injectors for Refrain look like guns, something to break the skin and deposit poison along your nerves.

The reports that Nagisa had placed on his desk yesterday are stark.

Extended use leads to damage of the central nervous system-- hallucinations, amnesia, eventual brain death. The thrill that the users of Refrain get is something beyond reality, because it is driving their brain to addiction, to heighten and to mix the past and present. To use Refrain is to taint the past, Suzaku thinks, and wonders how terrible the present must be to want to escape to times already lost.

They found the box in one of the bars in Kururugi territory. The owners had known nothing, had seen nothing, had  _ understood _ nothing.

It had been too easy to slide the rat feces and carcass into the man’s supplies, to make a gentle suggestion for health and safety to run a surprise inspection. The amount of money Suzaku authorizes for the transfer is minute, worth far less than the lifetime the man had spent building up his reputation and business. And Suzaku isn’t sure when it began, this strange dalliance of worth and money.

He isn’t sure if he will ever understand it, because more than anything else Suzaku has always strived to be fair-- to be a oyabun whom the citizens can trust will not tear their streets apart in some ill begotten fight. He never expected this part of it, the moment he tears down the people he has hoped to protect. He doesn’t know if he can be grateful to his father for never letting him see.

Another nod dismisses the men before him, and he lets his feet carry him out of the room, not certain at the tug in his chest. Nothing is certain-- nothing is sane, this is wrong, everything is  _ wrong _ . There is no worth in this, no reason to--

Suzaku closes his eyes, presses his forehead against a door as he fights to keep his breathing steady, uncertain when he began to rush. His exhalation is noisy, rushing air against the solid structure. The world is narrowing, just this door and the hard floor beneath his feet, the strings pulled tight in his neck and back. His fingers are tingling, the sound of his breathing wheezing and inconsistent. He feels lightheaded; he feels strange; he sinks to the floor without intending to, can’t help the ache that drags him downwards.

It has been a long time since he felt this way, and Suzaku lays flat on the floor, feeling sticky with sweat. The ceiling swims into focus, blurred edges smoothing away to reveal the corners of his room. 

The man had two daughters, Suzaku thinks. What would those two girls do, with their family’s only income run dry and father’s reputation ruined? Were they already addicted to Refrain, lost to the drug? He doesn’t know. He isn’t supposed to know, isn’t supposed to care for people who have crossed him already. 

But that bar, so long ago, had been in  _ his _ territory. That bar had been one that Suzaku visited, surveyed,  _ protected _ . The man had loved his daughters so much.

_ Men have no need for love _ , he remembers abruptly, the sound of his father’s voice harsh against the afternoon sun.  _ Love is weakness, is something a leader cannot afford. Our men are no fools who would follow a lovestruck boy who would pick a lover over the brothers he has sworn himself to. _

It was true, Suzaku thinks. It was true. He swallows around a dry tongue, his heart slowing. Love dulled the mind, interfered with the sword, made someone vulnerable. 

There was no need for it, not with the brothers who trusted themselves to his hands. 

There was no need for it.

(It is after he has calmed, eyes steady on the ceiling, that Suzaku sits up and realizes: he is in his former room, a room he has not returned to since the day he removed Urabe’s threat to his clan. There is no one who occupies this room, now-- it has been empty since the day he left Lelouch tangled in the sheets, warm and soft and utterly out of place in these bloodied halls.

He inhales, wonders if he can still smell their mingled scent.   
  
But it has been six years, has been long cleaned, and in the end Suzaku shakes his head at his own sentimentality.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still not good at longer chapters, but I hope you enjoyed this nevertheless! As always, comments and kudos are super encouraging and adored!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re marking him,” Toudou says, and Suzaku stares forward even as he makes a noise of agreement. “I wouldn’t have expected it of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of what I have half-drafted for this fic, guys! Let's see what happens from here, haha, and suggestions are most welcome! <3

There are few things as auspicious for a new member as the day they become marked: it is a moment of commitment, something permanent and something sacred. It is the moment you declare yourself as yakuza to anyone who you pass, to any lover you will take. To take on the family crest is to bind yourself in name to the clan, to take on its reputation and to uphold its honor with all your strength.

Members of the Kururugi clan start their tattoos when they are young; Suzaku’s first phoenix was completed when he was fifteen. It isn’t something that he has ever thought of, beyond  _ family _ and  _ honor _ and expectation. 

It is...different, when it is Lelouch. 

“Most of the members wear a phoenix on their back,” Suzaku admits to Lelouch, caught a bit off guard at the question.

“Then I will too,” Lelouch decides, sounding like every young member who has ever wanted to prove himself.

“You don’t have to,” Suzaku corrects. “You aren’t really a clan member right now-- you are a legal consultant. The moment you take on a tattoo,” he says, strokes Lelouch’s shoulder where he can already see the phoenix spawning, “it marks you as Kururugi.”

“Then it is all the more important,” Lelouch says, exasperated, “that I get a tattoo.” He shifts his weight, and the increase of heat on Suzaku’s palm has him drawing it back quickly.

“You’re too eager,” Suzaku accuses, soft.

Lelouch frowns. “You’re not giving me my due.”

“You aren’t--”

“My, isn’t this a bit late, Kururugi  _ oyabun _ ?” Lloyd’s voice interrupts. “You’ve already called me here, after all.”

Suzaku’s eyes slip to the lanky man, the hefty case he carries at his side.

“Exactly,” Lelouch says. “I have had enough time to make up my mind.”

“Hm,” Lloyd says, mock thoughtful, “then you must be the little lawyer who’s been playing hide and seek with the guardians of public peace.”

Lelouch grins, sharper than Suzaku has ever seen it. “And you must be the esteemed broker of rare things and information alike.”

Lloyd’s eyebrows go up, even as his eyes shine behind his glasses. “You’ve  _ heard _ of me.”

“It’s bad practice not to know of people who have been digging around information for you,” Lelouch comments, casual.

Lloyd laughs, a sound a bit too shrill to sound natural. “How  _ scary _ .” He keeps his eyes on Lelouch, “Even though you’ve already gotten a certain oyabun all~ twisted up.”

Eyes flicking between the men at the oddly hostile exchange, Suzaku wonders what it must be like, to have information enough to judge a person before you have properly exchanged greetings. “Ah,” Suzaku says. “Lelouch, this is Lloyd Asplund, the artist behind the Kururugi phoenixes and blades.” He tilts his head towards Lloyd. “Lloyd, Lelouch Lamperouge-- our lawyer.”

Lelouch smiles, sharp and bright. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Certainly,” Lloyd says, the corners of his lips tilting upwards. “I’ve heard  _ so _ much about you, after all.” His voice is sickly sweet, and it has been a long time since Suzaku has heard him use that tone. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

“This is just a consultation,” Suzaku interrupts, voice stern.

Lloyd snaps back to attention, scans Suzaku’s face before nodding. “Where were you thinking of putting it?”

“Take off your shirt, Lelouch,” Suzaku says, relieved when the other male obeys. 

The expanse of pale skin is unmarred as Suzaku had remembered, and he pulls his eyes from Lelouch’s skin to meet Lloyd’s amused eyes. 

“The tattoo will be on your back,” Suzaku explains, eyes on Lelouch. “I was thinking his right side, just along his shoulder blade.”

Lloyd hums, walks around Lelouch to look at his skin. “Head tucked along his spine?” He pulls on a pair of thin gloves, reaches out a clinical finger as he trails it down Lelouch’s back. “The wingspan could pull along his shoulder blade-- could be quite a challenge.” 

Lelouch is tense, so Suzaku makes sure to stay in his line of sight, even as he eyes Lloyd. “For now, plan for it to be basic outline and shading-- he doesn’t need full color. Six sessions should be sufficient.”

Lloyd makes a disappointed sound. “Violet then.”

“Violet?” 

“Surely,” Lloyd says, looking at Suzaku with his head tilted, “you wouldn’t make me work with  _ black _ ?”

“No,” Suzaku agrees. “Lelouch?”

Lelouch twitches, tension more obvious without the cloak of cloth. He is frighteningly slender, edges of bone defined beneath thin skin and with little fat or muscle lining his limbs. Around one of his wrists there is a ring of bruises, pressed into his skin and yellowing. 

Suzaku wonders how he can survive in the world, lets the nervousness Lelouch is displaying bring the next words to his lips.

“If you still want it,” Suzaku says, careful. “Lloyd will prepare a sketch and walk you through the process. There isn’t a need to make the decision today-- you’ll sleep on it, of course, and Lloyd will return at a later time if you’re determined.”

\-----------------------------

There is something comforting about tea, about the constant taste and heat as it slides down your throat, grounding. There is something consistent about it, something that reminds Suzaku of rainy days and warm hands.

Toudou is sitting beside him, hands wrapped around his own mug as they look out onto the courtyard. It is easy to bring his tea to his lips, to swallow, and take a moment to breathe when Toudou is beside him: there is no one who would dare approach the two of them together with malicious intent.

“You’re marking him,” Toudou says, and Suzaku stares forward even as he makes a noise of agreement. “I wouldn’t have expected it of you.”

“Why not?” Suzaku asks, even though he feels something settle in him, some absolution that he is correct: it isn’t normal, Lelouch tying himself this early, this way. 

“You are marking him as Kururugi, certainly,” Toudou says, steady and careful. “But as Kururugi property and not Kururugi blood.”   


The difference is stark, obvious even to someone who has not grown in this world-- and it brings the nausea to Suzaku’s belly, to his throat and mouth. Because he has been careful not to offer that to Lelouch-- has been trying to give Lelouch a path back to the outside, if Lelouch wants it. If he were still a young man, Suzaku thinks, perhaps he would force Lelouch away, would threaten him until he didn’t dare return. But Suzaku is older now, has been aged and any excuses for foolishness are worse aspersions than stupidity itself. He knows better now: if Lelouch exchanges sake with him, and then leaves, he will be leaving behind more than the bonds he makes with men. 

“It may be a wise decision,” Toudou continues, voice an echo against his racing mind, “since you hold neither all of his loyalties nor all of his time in your hand.”

But Suzaku doesn’t want Lelouch’s pinky. Not for this.

\-----------------------------

Suzaku wonders if the sky doesn’t shatter when Lelouch speaks his name. It certainly seems that way, a great sound that jars his balance, makes him slip on stable ground. The sound resounds through the quiet room, advisors hushing-- Lelouch commanding some great presence that in reality that he has always had in the depths of Suzaku’s mind, quiet and certain. He is dressed neatly as always, pressed white collar and black slacks, something simple but doubtlessly labeled with names and societal rituals that Suzaku has never cared to learn. He wonders if Lelouch would care, that he doesn’t know the names of the men who built up the barriers that Lelouch uses to cover his skin. 

Lelouch looks at him sometimes, some great sadness lingering beneath the flash of violet. It makes Suzaku want to scream, want to shout and tear things down. There is nothing sad here, there is nothing that is unfortunate or broken. Suzaku is happy to be here; he is happy to serve his family and his men. There are things that are wrong, but there are always things that are wrong, in this world, and Suzaku has never intended to think anything otherwise. Lelouch is another thing that is wrong here, sides of a puzzle that don’t fit, that hasn’t found its place yet--

But he will. Lelouch will find his place, will belong. It is no longer a question of whether Suzaku can keep him out of it, but a question of how quickly Suzaku can integrate him, can make him Kururugi and paint his skin with the sigil that will warn away their enemies.

(Flashes of a torn phoenix thrum through his mind, a body hanging in rafters, blood-- dripping, tears, photos, rage, endless rage, and a hollow in his gut.) 

Family does not guarantee safety; it never has. Nevertheless, Suzaku pushes forward on the page, sharp tip of the pen piercing through the paper as easily as a blade through skin, and as the ink pools on the desk Suzaku pushes back the wave of nausea that is slipping up his throat. He feels like he is suffocating, staring at the boy-- no,  _ man _ , they have been apart long enough that they are both men now-- in front of him.

“You want to go with them,” he says, quiet.

“I do,” Lelouch says. “I want to accompany the men so I can understand how it is they are perceived and where their charges originate.”

“It is not your duty,” Suzaku bites, barely restraining the hysteria bubbling beneath his skin, the surging desire to hide Lelouch, to keep him in the compound until he has their enemies named and marked for death. “You are a civilian, and more than that you can’t protect yourself.”

“Then teach me,” Lelouch argues. And Suzaku remembers, long ago, that he saw a boy in the Ashford, young and thin and armed with nothing but a chessboard, that he traded barbs and subtleties with finesse. He remembers thinking that short blades would suit him, and Suzaku sits back now, considers. 

“I could,” Suzaku says, “but before that-- what purpose would you play in the field? Why should I let my men distract themselves with you? Beyond that, as a liability, what role do you play in trading favor among those you have worked to free?” He doesn’t hide the insult, waits to see how Lelouch has changed.

And he hasn’t changed, much. 

The look on his face is raw, still obvious and easy to read; he hasn’t learned to mask himself yet, to hide his feelings the way the men will need him to if he is ever challenged. Suzaku wonders if he might have looked like this, _ that day _ , but he pushes aside the thought to twist the blade deeper.

“Because that is what you are right now: a liability, someone who is more likely to run and be slaughtered in the streets or cower behind someone who will take a blade for you because their honor tells them to. And I will not have that among my men, because I will kill for them.” He lets his eyes trail across his advisors, a reassurance and warning to them both. “And you are not exempt from that.”  He stands, pulls his blade and twists it into his belt, right hand lingering on its hilt. “I will not risk them for anything.”

“They die,” Lelouch argues, furious, “they die in the streets, they are thrown into jails, and you still stand there, speaking as though you are doing them some great favor.”

“All men will die eventually,” Suzaku says, “I will do my best to ensure that my men are not the ones that die today. But sacrifices must be made to maintain the peace we cling to-- and I thank you for standing in front of them, their guard in the legal field-- but you are not the man to stand in the battlefield and I will not allow you to stand there.” He stands before Lelouch, lets his hand rise to skim the pressed collar of his white (clean _ pure _ unsullied) shirt. He lets his finger trace the edge of the collar, never moving his eyes off of his hand’s movement, and smiles, removing his finger. “If you do indeed desire sword training, you will receive it. But it will not be because you are interested in proving a  _ point _ .”

“Then you will have me fail to learn any way to protect myself.”

Suzaku turns, dismissive. He doesn’t know if Lelouch will pick up a weapon, doesn’t know if he wants Lelouch to. He fears what will happen if Lelouch is seen as a combatant, because then Lelouch stops being a person to threaten and becomes a person to kill. He fears what will happen if Lelouch learns nothing, content to hide behind others’ blades.

He isn’t sure, because no one is safe; there is nothing safe or stable in this world. Every decision is a fork in the road, a path that disappears into the horizon, beyond understanding in the moment. Every decision is another step on a grand plan that no one has fully mapped out, a thrust into a land which could be plentiful with harvest or as barren as the starved ground. But every decision is the choice of the individual, and Suzaku will never take that from someone-- knows too well the consequences of letting others choose your path, of falling behind to follow the bloody footsteps of another.

Suzaku will have all of his men make choices of their own will, whether it be for good or bad. And he will give them counsel, will lead them and train them and protect them from whomever dares to oppose them. He will tear them down when they have lost their honor, lead them into battle so they may wear blood as a token of peace, and will honor them when they have passed, as best he can.

So he takes a seat at his desk, meets Lelouch’s eyes and flicks them to the door, and returns his gaze to the paperwork he was filling out. 

It is another condolence letter, this one long stained by ink so that the name of the man is lost to the spread of darkness. Suzaku shreds the paper, drops the fluttering pieces into his wastebasket. He glances upwards as he does so, and the room is empty, Lelouch departed.

What matters is what is right-- in this moment, for this time.

Even if it means he has to stop men from falling victim to their own bleeding hearts.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kaguya,” Suzaku says, her name stuck on his tongue (something he has kept quiet for years out of fear _duty_ pride). “It has been quite some time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, thanks so much for your patience! (/stares nervously at the last update date) I promise that this is still very much a work in progress, even if a large swath of time passes between updates! 
> 
> Happy birthday to the lovely lovely Charis!! \o/

Suzaku dreams of soft fingertips pressing against his lips, gentle and careful. His eyes are heavy, far heavier than they should be, and he wonders if this is the weight of the things he has seen. The things he engraves into his heart with duty and vigilance. They never said anything, his advisors, about how heavy it is to be leader-- how heavy it is to dream. Suzaku wonders what worth he will have, at the end of the day. When he goes, he wonders what epithet will follow him, what honors and shames his brothers will remember him for.

Blood is a tricky thing, Suzaku thinks, dark and staining.  Wine, the adult’s drink, is sticking to the glass before him as he stares at the only true blood relation he has left in this world.

“Kaguya,” Suzaku says, her name stuck on his tongue (something he has kept quiet for years out of  _ fear _ duty _ pride _ ). “It has been quite some time.”

“Indeed it has,” she agrees, her words soft but condemning. “I am sorry for your loss.” And here is the trick, the best kept secret of the Kururugi clan-- for all that Suzaku garners the loyalty of his men with his blade, Kaguya had always been the better diplomat of the clan heirs.  It was so long ago that they were to be married, Genbu’s thought to better secure the clan’s future.  And it is gender alone that has kept her name Sumeragi, that whisked her away to China to study when Genbu had declared Suzaku his successor. 

The choice lingers bitterly in his mouth, a choice he regrets beyond adulthood, because Kaguya has always enjoyed this game-- has been bred to excel at it.  Her lips quirk, as though she hears his thoughts, and when she opens her mouth Suzaku fears for a moment that she will lay him bare, bones stripped for all to judge.

But time has sweetened her, it seems, and instead she swallows more wine, the deep red color staining her lips like a lover’s possessiveness: she has long become an adult. “I did not expect you to greet me,” Kaguya says, finally, her glass settling on the table. She places it between them, a barrier of formality alone.  

It is a foolish game they play, Suzaku thinks, because she knows his blade sits beside him and her sleeves are filled with sharpened needles.  

“I need your assistance,” Suzaku admits in the silence. “Regarding some information I have not the resources for.”

“Is that so,” Kaguya says. “I should have expected it wouldn’t be a social call after all.” She sits back, her arms tight against her sides, spine straight as she meets his gaze dead on. “So what will it be, cousin? Do you have an asset you need to provide compensation for? Or perhaps some political alliance that needs to be  _ sweetened _ ?” Her voice is a lilting, almost as if she is telling a joke, but her voice is a shade harder and her eyes too dark.

And it is expected, Suzaku thinks, that she would be so sharp, because more than anything else her honor has always been questioned-- the daughter of the clan who has no loyalty, that she would run away to a foreign country rather than weather grief and threat among her own blood. Suzaku should have expected this, and yet he did not--

But he should have, he realizes now, because Kaguya’s fingers are tight against the cloth of her pants, white tipped from the ferocity she is holding at bay. Her lips are shaking, but her submission to him is in words alone.

Abruptly, Suzaku wonders what how this must have appeared to her, that she be summoned by her oyabun with a vague command about her loyalty-- what was she leaving behind, or wondering what she would lose when she agreed (was forced) to come? Who did she tell, what bonds did she leave behind? Who was she trying to protect, this small woman? Who could she protect with her small hands?

Suzaku lets the silence settle around them, frustration and confusion tainting the air and making it difficult to breathe. When he speaks, he pulls from his heart, in hopes the sincerity will reach her, his esteemed cousin. “I did not call you here to be a bargaining chip,” he says, because if nothing else he must fix  _ this _ before it festers, another disease hiding beneath the skin. “And I know what my father thought of your duty but I do not hold the same views.” He lets himself imagine fingers intertwining (ringed and  _ claimed _ ), the soft press of lips against his own in the morning light-- and brushes them away. 

These are only dreams for him, but they are things his cousin can have and hold. “I will not stand in the way of your choices made in love,” Suzaku whispers, careful not to break the soft shell he is slipping this hope into. “I will do everything in my power to bless the marriage you choose to make. And if there is ever a time when someone demands your hand, your voice will be heard. Because though we were not raised equals, you are my blood and I will protect your wishes with the breadth of my abilities.”

“You will regret saying that one day,” Kaguya says, so very young, her voice cracking.

Suzaku doesn’t doubt that he will-- that men will call him soft and wonder at his lack of insight to the future. But more than anything else, Suzaku wants her to be happy-- the happiest person in the world, if she dares. “I may regret it,” Suzaku admits, not wanting that truth to slip out of sight (to betray the trust she has shown). He watches the mask begin to bubble up from within her, shoulders drawing tight and bitterness coming to her lips. “But it won’t change the choice I’m making now. If you have something that make you happy, then--” He swallows, words like sharp glass in his throat. “I won’t let your perceived duty to the clan tear you from it.” 

The stem of her wine glass snaps between two fingers. “The men would revolt if they heard you say such a thing.” And of the people Suzaku speaks to, the thing he will remember about Kaguya is her ability to be kind, “And then they would be stuck marrying me off to the next leader candidate, which would rather defeat the purpose, don’t you think?”

Suzaku holds onto the tension for a moment longer. “The clan has done nothing to force your hand, and you have not pledged yourself to it through ritual or bloodshed. The clan has no hold on you that is not made by your own choice.” There are girls, in yakuza clans, their bodies torn and broken-- there are girls who are born into the clans who are shattered because their brothers do not protect them. And all those years ago Suzaku had cried out of gladness when he heard Kaguya was leaving, not because she would be gone but because she would never be forced to fall into that role.  

“And if I choose to stay,”  _ To belong _ , Suzaku hears, and for a moment he feels that he has been cored, his confident cousin letting her guard down with him for the first time since they were children.

“Then you will become a clan member in blood and in name,” Suzaku affirms, “and I will offer you the same choice.”

“That’s very convenient of you, oyabun.” Kaguya says. “What  _ will _ the men think if you let on that a mere woman is getting so much control? At this rate, they may demand that I marry you to forgive my transgressions.”

“W-with all due respect,” Suzaku stutters, “my--  _ inclinations  _ lie neither with family nor with those of your-- your stature?”

“Interesting,” Kaguya says, lips widening. It appears a genuine smile, but Suzaku can not help but wish it would not be so wide in this context. “Why  _ cousin _ , I had no idea! And who is the lucky man--” 

Her teasing breaks off with his quiet exhale, peering into his face.

“A lost love then,” she corrects, apologetically. “It seems we are not so different after all, Suzaku-- how unlucky of us.” She laughs. “Was it his own choice, or was he taken from you?”

“I-- I pushed him away,” Suzaku admits, words heavy as the blade beside him, “He does not belong in our world, Kaguya.”

“Is that so,” she says, letting the words disperse between them. “That is--”

“The right thing to do,” Suzaku says tightly, lets his eyes flit across the room.

The silence that lingers between them is quiet, considering, and finally Kaguya sighs. “Then what is it you have brought me here to discuss, Suzaku? If not my impending nuptials?”

“A drug has been creeping into Japan, one that finds its roots in China.” He looks aside, sighs minutely. “They are targeting clan members as well as civilians.”

Kaguya flicks her eyes to the closed door, lets them trail back to Suzaku, a quiet reprimand that makes his ears heat. “I’ve heard rumors,” she says slowly, measuring the weight of her words carefully, “that someone influential in the Triad is coming very close to the end of his life, and people are concerned over his only heir.” She tips the wine glass, a quiet shudder of sound as the remaining wine spills onto the wood of the table. “And his heir is not like you, the prodigious son. They are considerably less acceptable to the eyes of the men who dominate their order.”

_ Sick _ , Suzaku hears, and likely susceptible to the poison of others. Someone who has the mind to take care of the Triad but is too weak to hold the position for long: an easy target. 

Then Japan is a boon, a prize the heir is offering up to the leaders of the triad to prove their mettle as the true candidate. His mind runs against the tactical manuals-- is this heir going to escalate, push forward until they have torn a place for themselves? How many people will die, Suzaku thinks, to this backhanded attempt of negotiation and plotting of a coward? He lets a breath sink out his chest slowly, a gentle motion that is deceptive with its smoothness.

“We will handle it,” Suzaku says. There are few things as driven as an heir trying to prove his worth, Suzaku thinks ironically. And if this heir will not have the honor to show his face, to look at the damage he is causing, then Suzaku has no need to let the other have his way out of some misplaced empathy. He smiles, raps his fingers on the table to bring two men into the room to clear that table, wipe up the spilled wine. He has much to consider, so he lets Kaguya lead the conversation into neutral waters.

“I wonder if the Japanese government has come into money,” Kaguya says, slow and thoughtful, “The self-defense forces have been more active as of late, even with little to show.”

“Not that I know of,” Suzaku admits, “but the government dogs have goals of their own that it is not inclined to share.”

Kaguya laughs from behind her sleeve. “An odd thing to say, from someone who was trained by that man to solve everything political by satisfying greedy fingers.”   
  
“I am not my father,” he replies, but despite the note of offense, there is a pride hiding beneath the bones in his chest. Because if she had grown this much, had become such a skilled orator outside of the clan’s politics, he can’t help but wonder what she would have gained, what worlds she could push into creation in the clan. He can’t help but regret his father’s choice, to push her to China in a misguided attempt to protect her. 

He can’t help but be grateful that China did not take away the parts of her the clan would have, and that she won’t be caught in the conflict to come.

(This he does not see: Kaguya, watching him with something desperate in her eyes, words hidden behind her tongue.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
